No, this isn't a post about Michael Moore's new movie, although I can't wait to see it. No, no. This is about me. It is my blog, after all.
I started feeling a bit of a tickle in my throat yesterday morning. Maybe Sunday night. It's nothing too serious, but I was coughing up some green crap today and my throat was starting to feel a bit raw. I stopped by the grocery store after work to buy some orange juice and meds. Sarah has a veritable pharmacy on top on the fridge, too, so I've been popping Vitamin E and C pills like they were candy ever since I got home from work.
Speaking of work, tomorrow our new would-be intern comes in for a face-to-face interview with me and Cody ... Cody and I ... one of those is correct. Assuming that it goes well, and I see no reason why it wouldn't (plus we could really use that extra pair of hands), maybe this new kid can hang around and help us with a shipment of comics we're supposed to be getting tomorrow. Take a look at those pictures I took of where I'm working. Tell me where we're going to put god-knows-how-many more boxes of comics. I'm all ears for suggestions.
My grandmother turned 89 on Saturday. She's absolutely nuts. And she's moving to Omaha in a couple months, unless she worries herself about it to death first. My father is driving out to Pittsburgh next week in a possibly vain attempt to get things organized. I wish him luck. And patience. He's gonna need it, dealing with all her meshugga.
Father's Day was Sunday. I called my father to wish him a happy one. He and my mother went over to my sister's in-laws for a BBQ that night, which I'm sure wasn't completely unbearable. I can't say that I'm sorry I missed it, but there really haven't been too many Father's Days that my father and I didn't see each other. So it was kind of strange for me to not be there.
Oh, I finished The Yiddish Policemen's Union over the weekend, on Saturday, I think. I really enjoyed this book. It's a really great hard-boiled murder mystery, in the grand tradition of Sam Spade and Philip Marlow, but the best part had to be the alternate history Michael Chabon invented, this world for his characters to inhabit. A world in which Israel failed as a state shortly after it was created, in 1948, and all the exiled Jews, millions of them, were shuffled off to this barren stretch of Indian land in Alaska, called Sitka, where they thrived, sort of, for 60 years.
Chabon invented new Yiddish words for his characters to speak. A gun is called a "sholem," kind of a play on words with Shalom, which means either hello, goodbye, or peace. And cell phones are called "shoyfers," like shofars, the ram horns used during Rosh Hashanah and Yom Kippur. It's really brilliant, this alternate world of "the Frozen Chosen."
When the story begins, the land the Jews have been living on for six decades is about to revert back to being Indian land, kind of like Hong Kong reverted back to being under Chinese rule a few years back. The main character is a shammas (instead of shamus), a detective, named Meyer Landsman, who's woken from a drunken stupor by a pounding on his apartment door. Turns out there's a dead Yid a few floors below, murdered, point blank to the back of the skull. Who is this mysterious, chess-playing corpse? And what does he have to do with the Verbovers, the hardcore Hasidic gangster Jews?
All in all, a great, fun, interesting story. There's one part, toward the end, involving Arab Palestine (that's what Israel became after 1948) that just cracked me up. I marveled at the balls Chabon had to do what he did. This probably isn't my favorite Chabon novel. That honor still goes to Kavalier & Clay, but it's certainly high up on my list. I think everyone should go read it.
And now, I'm gonna watch me Sunday night's John from Cincinnati and Friday's Stargate: Atlantis. Be well. Be good. Shalom.